Perched on the edge
of your bed, I listen to the
lyrics of a song I’ve
heard a million times.
“I’ll never be the comfort
you lost when you were
nine,” the singer belts,
and I look at you. “Don’t
give me that face,” you say,
“this song is about quitting
smoking.” I want to say
something clever in return,
like, “same difference,”
but you’re smarter than
me, so I just keep staring.
Wistful. I know you want
me to go home, or anywhere
other than your room. I will,
in a moment. For now,
let me count your freckles
and imagine a future in
which you love me.
Bailey Share Aizic is a poet, student, and Oxford comma enthusiast based in Los Angeles. She works on the editorial team of Wizards in Space Magazine, a litmag by and for nerdy writers, and performs improv comedy in her (scant) spare time. Read her recent work in Noctua, Rogue Agent, Right Hand Pointing, and Calamus, and read her mind @sortabailey.